Shadows in the Moonlight, part1
by Nevala
Summary: A story about a Trill named Seloran, and his descent into the darkest parts of his soul.


  
Shadows in the Moonlight  
  
T'Rel Tarrison reached for the neckline of her uniform, touching the ensigns pip with cold fingers. It felt heavy. She wondered if it had been as heavy before she betrayed Starfleet. Was that the weight of betrayal?  
  
She looked at the gleaming panels and contoured chairs of the Starfleet shuttle Bosco. T'Rel studied the pilot ensign. He matched the decor perfectly.  
  
"What's your name?" she asked. She expected it to be proper and Starfleet, just as the shuttle was proper and Starfleet, just as she had never been.  
  
He turned from the pilot console and smiled. "David Talley."   
  
Yes, she decided, he was a Starfleet cardboard cut out, from his regulation Starfleet sideburns to his freshly starched uniform. His hair and eyes matched to a shade. His smile was perfect. Not the same kind of perfection as Seloran's perfect, his perfection seemed more related to a well cared for piece of furniture. Starfleet perfect.  
  
A glint of recognition showed in Ensign Talley's eyes. "T'Rel? Is that you? Remember me, we worked on a forensics study together at the Academy. Your friends Terak and Klaryn worked with us."  
  
"Yes, I remember."  
  
"I heard the three of you were posted to the USS Triumph."  
  
"Yes." T'Rel smiled. The falseness of it made her face ache. A silence ensued; she broke it before it could suffocate her. "How have you been, David?"  
  
"Well enough." He turned back to his console. "And you? I heard you were visiting Admiral Zakarian. Do you know him well?"  
  
"You could say that."  
  
"I heard he's been put in charge of the New Maquis situation."  
  
"Has he?"  
  
"The original Maquis were troubling enough, don't you think? Do you remember the debates about them at the Academy? Your friend Terak was a marvelous debater if I remember correctly, even if her opinion seemed clouded at times."  
  
"She had a low opinion of terrorists."  
  
"Well, to tell you the truth, so do I. Why do they have to destroy things to make a point?"  
  
"It's not always that simple, David."  
  
"Explain it to me then."  
  
T'Rel was glad David's back was to her. He couldn't see the tears blurring her vision. David had probably guessed the truth about her. When they reached Earth, he might check up on her records. She hadn't been on the USS Triumph for three weeks. He couldn't be allowed to discover that.  
  
"Never mind David. Has anything interesting happened in your life?"  
  
"My personal life is pretty empty, you know how it is, always the dedicated officer."  
  
"I understand."  
  
T'Rel stopped twirling the cadet pip. She reached into her sleeve and brought out a hidden disruptor. She took a shaky aim at David's perfect Starfleet head.  
  
"Seloran, help me," she whispered. She fired the disruptor. Ensign David Talley slipped out of his chair and fell to the floor. The perfect Starfleet officer, his eyes wide and surprised in death.  
  
"No!" T'Rel turned away from the sight. "Seloran you promised! You promised you'd help me..."  
  
A warmth, a shell of calm welled up from deep inside her symbiont. It cradled her, murmuring soothing words.  
  
"Don't grieve, only accept. Only when you accept can you banish, then you will not need to grieve. Not dead, this one, not really. He's in another transition, like you, like me. Look upon his face and know this."  
  
T'Rel Tarrison turned back to the body, staring with dulled eyes. David Talley, dead. Without another conscious thought of him, she set the disruptor its highest setting and vaporized the body.  
  
She sat back in her chair and shut her eyes. "Computer, change to autopilot. Same course and heading." She tried to fall asleep. She knew she would need her strength for the trials to come. Images flickered behind her eyes. As she passed into blissful unawareness, a story began to play itself out. Seloran would have called it a violin without strings. Vibrations of music still echoed about the useless body, dead but not buried, laid to rest in an open grave.  
  
***  
  
Seloran woke. He stared up into the dim, dirty skies of Prodigal Orios. He couldn't remember anything beyond his name, the name of the planet, and a voice speaking 'you are cursed.' He was lying in a pile of refuse. He didn't remember why he was.  
  
He climbed out and wandered about in the streets. Rain began to fall. It poured for a few minutes, stopped, then it poured again. He looked into one of the puddles with curiosity. He saw a damp wraith in an oversized coat. His hair was darker than the sky and hung in a tangled mess over his shoulders. Mottlings of spots ran from his temples to his neck, where they disappeared under the sodden coat.  
  
Seloran stumbled onto a street of shops. A voice rang out through the hushed whispers and murmurs of the others, booming and warm. He stretched his face toward it, as he might to a sun, had he remembered a sun.  
  
"Come, buy the best souvenirs in Seraph City!" said the voice.  
  
Seloran walked closer to the voice. He saw a face peering out at him from a well lighted and warm looking shop. He shivered as it began to rain again. He stood, shaking, water dripping from his arms and coat. He looked at the man who spoke, imploring him without words to explain. Who was he? What was he doing here?  
  
"Well." said the voice, "Its wet out there. Come in then, boy, if you've got nowhere else to go."  
  
Seloran hurried into the shop. He forced a joyful noise down his throat. Heat enveloped him, bits of steam curled around his throat and face, and he shivered again, this time with pleasure.  
  
The man chuckled. "You look as if you haven't been warm before. You're young to be out on the streets, aren't you? How old are you, three, four?"  
  
"I don't remember," Seloran said, surprised at the sound of his own voice.  
  
The man knelt to Seloran's height. "What's your name?"  
  
"Seloran."  
  
"That's the only name you have?"  
  
"I don't remember any others."  
  
"Do you remember anything, kiddo?"  
  
Seloran shook his head.  
  
"I see. My name is Shistor. I'm a shopkeeper here in Seraph City."  
Seloran looked at Shistor. The shopkeeper's skin had a blue tint His head and body were rounded. His large, blue head was bald. He glanced around the shop next, wondering at the red, green, blue, and multicolored knickknacks littering the shelves.  
  
"Its my own little corner of civilization," Shistor said, following his gaze, "Doesn't get too much business though, mostly Orion Syndicate folks buying souvenirs for their kids."  
  
"Orion Syndicate?"  
  
Shistor lowered his voice. "Dangerous folks. They're usually the better-dressed ones around here. Be respectful and scarce around them."  
  
"Oh," Seloran said, "I will."  
  
Shistor gestured to a food synthesizer on one of the walls. "You hungry, boy?"  
  
Seloran nodded.  
  
Shistor pressed a combination of buttons. Two bowls of steaming soup appeared. Seloran took his bowl and stirred it with a spoon. There was meat and a kind of potato, stalks of sharp smelling purple vegetables, spicy pepper and other seasonings. Seloran breathed in the steam. He spooned mouthful after mouthful into his mouth. It burned his tongue, but he didn't care.  
  
Shistor chuckled. "You were hungry."  
  
Seloran didn't stop eating to respond. When he couldn't eat anymore, he found his eyelids lowering without his consent. He blinked sleepily at Shistor.  
  
"There's an extra bed in back," said Shistor, "Sleep there if you want."  
  
Seloran walked into one of the back rooms. He slipped into the bed, falling asleep instantly. His dreams that night and many nights after were empty, silent.   
  
In the weeks and months that followed, Shistor behaved as a father to Seloran. In the evenings after Shistor closed up shop, they would sit by an antique fireplace (for sale of course). Shistor would tell Seloran stories about the shopkeeper's own planet, Bolarus. Seloran listened intently. He knew no stories to tell, but he began to invent his own in daydreams. One night, four months after his arrival, Shistor told Seloran a different kind of story.  
  
Both Shistor and Seloran were finishing dinner. They sat by the fireplace, staring into the crackling flames. Shistor put down his bowl, and began to polish a strange piece of metal. It looked almost like a shirt.  
  
"What is that?" Seloran asked.  
  
"Its called armor."  
  
"Is it yours?"  
  
"Yeah, it's from the Red Wars. Back then I was slim enough to fit into it." Shistor chuckled. His laugh sounded more nervous than usual. Seloran gazed at him, wondering why.  
  
"Red Wars?"  
  
"I haven't told you that story?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Ahh, it was horrible. Perhaps you're too young to hear"  
  
"Tell me, please."  
  
"Alright kiddo," Shistor said, running his blue tinted fingers across the armor, "I'll tell you. The Red wars were battles between my people and the Andorians. We fought on Annares 4. I was conscripted to join when I became a man."  
  
"Why was it called the Red Wars?"  
  
"Because so much of our blood soaked the ground. It truly was terrible."  
  
Seloran studied the fire, conjuring pictures in his mind. Terrible? No, not terrible. Fascinating.  
  
"How did you kill each other?" he asked.  
  
"Well, we had energy weapons. A few months after I got conscripted, we began to run out of those, so we used blades or our fists."  
  
"Who won?" asked Seloran, unable to disguise the awe in his voice.  
  
"We did."  
  
"How did you win?"  
  
"My contingent captured some Andorian troops. We took information from them, about their supply freighters. We destroyed those and kept future supplies from reaching their lines. Eventually they surrendered..."  
  
Shistor's voice trailed to a close. Seloran waited for him to say more, but he was silent.  
  
"How did you get the information from them?"  
  
"Why do you want to know these things?" Shistor clenched his hands into fists. "I'm not proud of this, can't you see?"  
  
"I didn't mean--I mean, I'm sorry."  
  
Shistor relaxed his hands. He sighed. "No, I am sorry. You are just a child, you don't understand."  
  
They didn't speak about the Red Wars again. Seloran's interpretations of the Wars filled his dreams. In waking hours, he found a bent pipe in the streets, and it was his blade. He slashed at imaginary foes, envisioning a blood soaked battlefield.  
  
His three years with Shistor passed quickly. Shistor taught Seloran how to read, write, and do figures in a dozen different languages. When Seloran asked why he was learning this, Shistor said:  
  
"It'll help you to sell things around here, kiddo. The translator systems break down half of the time, not to mention the folks who don't bother wearing them."  
  
Seloran found his passion in music. Shistor had a Terran instrument called a piano in his shop. Seloran taught himself how to play. He loved running his fingers across the gleaming white keys. After playing for a few moments, he could banish any impatience or trouble from his mind, making it smooth as the notes he played.  
  
One night, when Seloran was about six years old, one of Shistor's 'colleagues' came to the shop. Seloran sat in the shop, trying to play Vulcan musical scales on the piano. He didn't notice the shop's door swing open. The door chime blended with the notes. He heard Shistor and the stranger greeting each other, but he didn't pay attention to that either.  
  
"Ah, Kiran. What brings you here?"  
  
"Greetings Shistor. It's been a long time, hasn't it? Ten years if I remember correctly. Who is that Trill boy?"  
  
"I adopted him about three years ago. He's sharp, a real credit to me."  
  
"He sounds quite talented on that..what is it called?"  
  
"A piano. And yes, he is talented. So, what brings you to my doorstep? I heard you opened up a weapons shop recently."  
  
"Old memories, Shistor. I don't suppose I could have dinner with you and your boy."  
  
"Of course you can. There's always room at our table for an old friend. Just let me get the good place settings."  
  
Seloran finished with the Vulcan scales. He turned around and saw a well-dressed woman of a common race on Prodigal. Her facial features were smooth and blended, her eyes were red-brown. She was watching him.  
  
"Why, hello little boy," she said. "Is Shistor training you to sell these antiques?"  
  
"Yes I can sell things," he said. "You have a weapons shop?"  
  
"Yes I do. Perhaps you could come work for me one day, or the Syndicate. The Syndicate is always looking for young operatives."  
  
"Do you sell things to the Syndicate?"  
  
"Of course I do, little boy. Everyone on Prodigal does, including your father. Don't you admire the Syndicate?"  
  
Seloran felt a burning jealousy rise into his face. He didn't want to sell cheap figurines to tourists; he wanted to sell weapons. But how to accomplish that?  
  
"I like the Syndicate," he said, "Shistor doesn't. He told me to stay away from them, he hates the Syndicate."  
  
Kiran's face showed shock. "Oh, he said that, did he?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Seloran told Kiran more lies about Shistor. In that moment, he knew what he wanted. He didn't care how he got it.  
  
Shistor reentered the room a few minutes later. The three of them had dinner and pleasant conversation. Kiran didn't mention anything Seloran had told her. After they ate, Kiran bid goodbye to both, and departed.  
  
"She was in a hurry," Shistor said, "What did you two talk about?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
Seloran sat up late. After Shistor went to bed, he sat on the floor by the fireplace. As he stared into the crackling flames, he slowly drew out of himself. He was no longer sitting; he was above himself, watching himself. He studied his own visage.  
  
"You are cursed," said the whisper voice from his memories.   
  
Seloran saw the pale, cold-eyed figure fall asleep by the fire. He felt bad about what he'd told Kiran. What had he done? He summoned music into his mind, music to make him forget. The blackness came over him and he slept.  
  
The next morning, he headed out into the streets to play Red Wars. He was getting skilled at wielding the pipe. The grumbling sky around him lightened as he sliced imaginary people apart with his weapon. He delighted in the strange thrill it gave him. Time became his heartbeat from one moment to the next.  
  
A real scream jolted him into reality. He recognized the voice, but he would not believe it.  
  
Seloran ran through the streets. Smoke and fire billowed out of Shistor's shop in a choking cloud. Rain began to pour down, barely slowing the sudden furnace. Seloran heard the scream again. He looked to the street corner. Men of Kiran's species were beating and stabbing Shistor.  
  
Seloran froze.   
  
Blood gushed from a dozen wounds on Shistor's body. As he watched, the men cut Shistor's throat with a dull dagger. The sidewalk filled with blood. The attackers were covered in it. They didn't seem to care; they looked bored if anything. Their black, capelike rain ponchos trailed in the red river.  
  
He saw Shistor take in a last breath. The men, most certainly agents of the Orion Syndicate, turned and left without a word to anyone. The other shopkeepers on the street stared with grim eyes at the sodden remains of Shistor.  
  
"Lets go!" a voice rang out.  
  
Seloran saw three ragged children race toward the burning shop. They gathered the antiques, which had been scattered onto the road. Angered, he took up his pipe and headed after them. Then came jolts of weapons fire, and cries, and darkness.  
  
***  
  
  
Scattered voices woke him. He heard them shouting, jabbering, accusing. He opened his eyes and saw the three ragged children, Terran, Vulcan, and Deltan by species.  
  
"He's awake," said the Vulcan.   
  
The Terran stared at him. Seloran stared back. The Terran's hair was cut in a mohawk across his head. His hair was black, but a white streak ran through it. The Terran and the Vulcan looked a year or two older than him, the Deltan a year or two younger.  
  
"You three are ridiculous," Seloran said.  
  
The Deltan sniffed and buried his head in the Vulcan's shoulder.  
  
The Terran shrugged. "Well, you're strange looking. You've got these weird eyes. You look like a legend my mom told me, about death becoming a person and walking among the living."  
  
"I think you're scaring him." Seloran pointed to the Deltan, who clutched at the Vulcan tighter and whined.  
  
"Well, Mr. Death Come to Life. I'm Philip, that's Setal. The scared one is Delian."  
  
"My name is Seloran," Seloran said, "And I still say you three are ridiculous."  
  
He scanned the room as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a kind of storage closet; there were extra changes of clothing, supplies, and a naked lightbulb hanging above their heads. Of course, it wasn't activated.  
  
"We must be in the prison of our enemies," said Setal.  
  
"Who are your enemies?"  
  
The Deltan, Delian, lifted his head from Setal's shoulder. "They..they call themselves the C-Crossbones. They always chase us."  
  
"They don't treat prisoners well," said Setal. She looked at Seloran. For a moment, he was lost in the dark orbs of her eyes.  
  
"Do you three have a name like that?"   
  
"Yep," said Philip, "Were the Shadows."  
  
"If we survive the wrath of these Crossbones, do you think you can use another addition?"  
  
Philip cast Setal an uncertain glance. Without taking her eyes from Seloran, Setal said. "Any additions would be helpful, should we survive." Philip didn't argue the point.  
  
The door flew open.   
  
Delian whined and clutched at an unfazed Setal. Half a dozen people strode into the room. Symbols of skulls and crossbones were sewn into their clothing. Weapons hung from leather harnesses around their waists. Philip glared at them. Setal looked at them without changing her expression. Delian whined louder.   
  
"So, we finally catch you," said one of them, a girl who looked part Romulan and part demon, "What should we do with you stragglers?"  
  
"Let us go," said Setal.  
  
The girl sneered. "I think we should teach you not to violate Crossbone territory."  
  
Philip laughed. "You consider the entire planet your territory!"  
  
The girl backhanded him across the face. Her metal studded knuckle guards left bloody slashes. Philip didn't make a sound. He kept glaring.  
  
The girl looked over each one of her prisoners, her cruel and piercing gaze slicing through each one. Seloran slipped a disruptor from her while she wasn't looking. He hid it in his sleeve.  
  
Quick as lighting, the girl snatched Delian's arm and tore him away from Setal. She grinned at Delian. He looked frightened beyond his ability to move or even whine.   
  
The other five Crossbones held him, Setal, and Philip back. Seloran didn't struggle. What is she going to do, he wondered.  
  
The Romulan girl took a small device from her weapons belt. She attached it to Delian's pale, trembling neck. She pressed a button on the device, and Delian screamed. She pressed the button and held it down. Delian's screams echoed through the room.   
  
Seloran watched, fascinated. He remembered Shistor telling him about the Red Wars. This was the same feeling. He couldn't take his eyes away from Delian's pain.   
  
After a time, the girl tired of torturing Delian. She took out a knife and held it to the Deltan's throat. Her hand suddenly spasmed, she dropped the knife and looked down, seeing a large, disruptor made hole in her chest. Seloran shot the others before they could react.  
  
Setal knelt next to Delian, who crumpled into a heap on the floor. Philip stuffed weapons into his pockets and sleeves.  
  
"Let's go," Philip said, "I'm sure the other Crossbones won't be happy about this."  
  
No one spoke after that. They killed the Crossbone scouts guarding the entranceway, and made their way through the drizzling rain. Setal kept Delian near her, muffling his sobs with the sleeve of her red sweater. After a long and tiring walk, they reached their patched basement of a home.  
  
Setal and Philip repaired Delian with stolen medical equipment while Seloran considered his new home. Faded Vulcan tapestries in various shades of gray and brown decorated the small, yellow tinted basement windows. A beaten up computer database was plugged into a wall conduit. Upon closer inspection, Seloran discovered it to be federation in design. There were four rooms in the basement, two looked like bedrooms, one like a bathroom, and the other a main room. The main room held the computer database, a few sofa chairs, and in the corner...  
  
Seloran didn't believe it. Why would they have a piano, of all things? Yet, it stood there, oblivious to his disbelief.  
  
He sat down and pressed his fingers to the keys. Emotions flooded his mind, grief and anger at what he'd done to Shistor, uncertainty. He could sense his feelings seep into the music as he began to play. The notes drifted into his mind, white and transparent, a whisper. His pain drained like rain into the Prodigal street gutters, leaving him whole and refreshed.  
  
Seloran turned to see Setal and Philip staring at him. Both had tears in their eyes.  
  
"How do you?" Philip began to ask.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Well," said Philip, "In case you wanted to know about us, my whole name is Philip Zakarian. I ran away about a year ago, when my dad and his stupid Starfleet delegation were here. They never found me and they never will!"  
  
Seloran looked at Setal. "What about you?"  
  
"I have been alone since I was a baby. I don't remember my family. I wish I knew what it was to truly be Vulcan, to have mastery over my emotions."  
  
"I don't remember my family either."  
  
"That other one there, Delian," said Philip, "We found him rummaging around in trash cans. We found that piano thing near him. Were a family now, you too, doesn't matter where you came from."  
  
Seloran nodded. He resolved never to think of Shistor again. Philip, Setal, and Delian were his family now.  
  
Time passed quickly for him. He kept up with his languages and studies using the computer database. Other street groups had confrontations with them, though they never succeeded in destroying the little group of four. Their enemies didn't discover their basement house, which, as the years passed, began to fill with stolen treasures. He fooled himself into thinking that nothing would ever break the union between him and the others. There were strains between the four of them, though, especially between Seloran and Philip where Setal was concerned. Soon, Philip and he became rivals, hidden beneath a thin veneer of friendship.  
  
One evening, when Seloran was about 15 years old, he sat composing some original tunes on the piano. He could feel pent up rage pouring through his body and into the music. Setal and Philip were in one of the bedrooms. They had begun a relationship lately. He felt ready to snap, and Delian didn't help matters much.  
  
As usual, the Deltan sat on one of the sofa chairs, watching him. Delian had idolized him almost from the moment they met. Of course, he idolized everyone. Nevertheless, Delian's bright violet eyes boring into his back didn't relax him.  
  
Seloran stopped composing. His anger welled from a place too deep for the music to heal. He took the basement stairs up into the street. It was darkening already, and cold. He took a deep breath of the air, his lungs tingling at the crisp, cool sensation. He breathed white frost into the air, where it hung for a moment, like a cloud.  
  
A disruptor shot whizzed past his cheek, sizzling the air. Seloran darted behind a building and drew his own weapon, his mind racing.   
  
"Seloran!" Delian leapt behind the building with him.   
  
Seloran pushed away his anger at Delian. Did he have to follow him everywhere? He heard the intruders' voices and concentrated on the orders they shouted.  
  
"I saw three," said Delian, "Is that how many there are, do you think?"  
  
"Four. One is climbing on the roof. I can hear him. Cover me."  
  
Seloran set his disruptor on wide beam. He jumped out from behind the building and caught two of the intruders with a well-placed shot. The third intruder fired a weapon. The beam of energy lashed Seloran across his left arm. He threw himself behind the building, clutching at the wound and cursing.  
  
"Seloran!" Delian said, "Are you hurt?"  
  
Seloran slipped off his jacket. He made it into a sling for his arm. He jumped out again, firing point blank at the third attacker. His shot hit as Delian screamed in pain. He turned to see the Deltan drop to the dirty, ice-crusted concrete, a smoking hole in his stomach.  
  
The remaining intruder pointed his weapon at Seloran. He grinned, aiming straight at his head.  
  
The whisper from his forgotten memories came to him, unbidden. "You are cursed."  
  
As the intruder's hand tightened around the trigger, a knife appeared, buried in the intruder's chest to the hilt. The intruder fell over with the silly grin still planted to his face.  
  
Delian sat propped against a building, from where he must have thrown the knife. Various emotions flittered across the face of his friend; fear, pain, triumph, and various others he couldn't identify. Seloran wouldn't believe, he couldn't force himself to realize what his eyes were telling him. He knelt by Delian's side, catching hold of his hand and squeezing it.  
  
"Why?" Seloran asked. He wasn't sure exactly what he was asking.  
  
"I," Delian said, "You..why is everything so dark? So dark. Help me Seloran! I can't see."  
  
The Deltan coughed. Blood tinged his lips. Seloran tried to speak to him. He tried to make him speak. He watched in detached horror as Delian's eyes slowly lost their expression. His body was lifeless.  
  
Seloran descended into the basement rooms, his face nearly as expressionless as the corpse of his friend. The door to Philip and Setal's room slid open. Philip stood there, half dressed. His eyes were questioning, his hair askew.  
  
"Delian is dead," Seloran said.  
  
"What the hell happened?" Philip glared at him with unconcealed malice.  
  
"Four unknowns attacked us. One of them shot Delian."  
  
Setal appeared behind Philip. Her lips trembled as she fought to keep Vulcan control. She failed.  
  
"Why didn't you call out, damnit? We could've helped," said Philip.  
  
"If I'd made noise, I'd have drawn more people than you and Setal. Our enemies are becoming serious about locating us."  
  
"Delian is dead, you heartless Trill bastard! Don't you care?"  
  
Seloran took a menacing step closer to Philip "If you say another word, I will split your head into two pieces."  
  
Setal stepped between them. "Quiet, both of you. We cannot change what is done. Seloran may be right; calling out to us might have done more harm then good. Philip, go vaporize the bodies."  
  
Philip left, casting a reluctant and malevolent glance at Seloran.  
  
"Seloran," Setal said, moving closer to him, "I believe that Delian loved all of us. I know you cared about him too, despite what Philip says. I also know why he says it. At times, I see it too, in your eyes."  
  
"What do you see?"  
  
She hesitated. "It is not what I see, exactly, but what is lacking."  
  
"What do I lack?"  
  
"I cannot say."  
  
Seloran studied her more closely in the light. Her slight, emerald green night shift brought out the dark orbs of her eyes. Jealousy racked him like a physical pain. He wanted to be with her as Philip was. He leaned closer to her, touching his lips to hers. He kissed her lightly, brushing against her, a moth seeking light. He drew back, searching her face for a response.  
  
Setal took his hand and stroked it. "Seloran, I do not think you should remain here."  
  
He didn't speak, forced himself not to feel. I can be a Vulcan too, he thought, I can hide behind a facade of uncaring.  
  
"I am not a true Vulcan, nor is Philip a true Terran. In our incompleteness, we complete one another. It will always be so."  
  
"Am I a perfect Trill then? Are you selfish enough to think only you two feel this way?"  
  
"You miss my meaning, my friend. I love him."  
  
Seloran turned away. The bitterness he felt at her words stole the air from his lungs, as surely as a punch in the stomach would.  
  
"He loves me as well. We are planning to leave Prodigal Orios shortly, to apply to Starfleet Academy. You could come."  
  
"I would be alone."  
  
"Philip and I would be there."  
  
"I would be alone!"  
  
Setal moved away from him, taken aback at his dark tone. "Will you remain here?"  
  
"I don't know. Maybe. What do you care?" Seloran turned to stare at her. "You and Philip may go to hell together, but don't expect me to follow you."  
  
"What will you do?"  
  
Seloran strode to the piano. He sat down and began to play. He channeled the anger, pain, fear, guilt, longing, love, and hate into his notes. The music rose in a crescendo as his emotions poured from him. He thought about Shistor, the music turned to a tempest. He thought of Delian, and it became a hurricane. He thought about the whisper murmuring, always murmuring "You are cursed." He thought about Setal. The music tore itself apart in a whirlwind of destruction, which was his soul.  
  
Seloran rested his fingers heavily on the keys. He could feel the sweat beading on his brow; his breath came in gasps. He looked up and saw Setal and Philip standing near, their eyes filled with tears as when he first played for them.  
  
"I'm sorry," Setal whispered, "Seloran, I.."  
  
He stared at her, and felt nothing.  
  
***  
  
  
Two weeks later, Seloran trudged through the rainy, mud splattered streets of Seraph City for the last time. He didn't think of the three friends who'd been brothers and sister to him for years. They'd left a week ago. He didn't think of Shistor, who was the closest thing he ever had to a father.  
  
Just as he reached the docking port, which contained the transport ship he was going to take, he saw something by the wire fencing that surrounded the place. It was a woman. He caught a glimpse of her fiery orange hair, mirthful eyes, and a group of Trill spots cascading down her neck. Seloran had never seen another Trill on Prodigal Orios. He turned to get a better look, but saw nothing but the fence, dripping with water from a recent rainstorm.  
  
Trill. He must have made up an illusion, he decided, since he was going to the planet. He remembered asking Setal whether he was a perfect Trill. Of course, he wasn't, a perfect Trill had a symbiont, which would carry one's memories after death, and it contained memories of other lives within it. He was going to get a symbiont. A week before, he'd contacted Trill and asked them about their symbiont training program. Their response showed interest in him, and contained a ticket for this transport vessel.  
  
He boarded the transport ship without taking much notice of it, or its passengers. He sat in his cabin on the vessel, solitary, feeling the ship shudder as it ascended through the atmosphere. He switched on the small viewer in his cabin. For the first time in his life, he saw Prodigal Orios from orbit. He smiled. It was uglier from this position. He watched the sickly green and gray orb grow smaller, and at last vanish altogether.  
  
He slept in the dimly lit traveling compartment for most of the journey. In the rare moments when he did wake, he stared at the yellowed and cracked paint on the walls. He imagined the lines drawn together into a detailed spider's web, in which he was the spider's prey. The lines blurred, he slept more.   
  
The transport ship reached Trill after half a day's travel. The passengers all filed through a dimly lit corridor. As Seloran stumbled down a cheap set of stairs into the light, he was blinded for a moment. He regained his sight only to stare at the people and things around him with a mixture of awe and horror.  
  
The people reminded him of story people, from one of the legends Philip had been so fond of telling. Their brightly colored clothing glinted as if by magic in the sunlight. The sunlight was bright enough to be surreal. The area around him teemed with colors, green, golden, and purple.  
  
But this isn't right, he thought, people aren't meant to be this way. The sensation turned his lips and his stomach. He looked at the people before him with all the wit and charm of a lost child.  
  
"Seloran," someone said, "Is that you?"  
  
A woman wearing a purple tunic approached him. He gazed, mesmerized by the delicate imprint of flowers on her tunic, which seemed to be woven of powder fine golden sparkles. He looked down at his own clothing, careworn and gray as the streets he'd lived in.  
  
She smelled of lemon and cinnamon, not of damp rain as most did on Prodigal. Her face held dozens of age lines; her snow colored hair only a trace of its original red coloring. Yet, in a way surreal as Trill's sun, she seemed younger than he did.  
  
"Seloran?" she asked again.  
  
"Yes," he said, almost unable to force the word out. He stared at her as if she might sprout wings and fly, as creatures did in the wildest of Philip's tales.  
  
"I'm Dr. Kalia Tarrison," she said, "Retired Dr. of Anthropology and former member of the Symbiosis Commission. You can call me Kalia, alright?"  
  
"Kalia," he said.  
  
"Alright then Seloran. I've spoken to the Symbiosis Commission about you. Since you have no parental guardians, you'll be staying with me. Is that bag all you brought?" She gestured to the small, worn travel bag at his shoulder.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Come this way."   
  
Kalia moved through the crowd. Seloran followed her, weaving in and out of various groups of people. He saw a clump of Vulcans in drab ambassadorial robes, the first drab thing he had seen since his arrival. They were silent and unyielding as concrete lampposts on Prodigal. He heard happy cries of reunited families as he walked by. He stopped to watch two lovers greet in a passionate embrace.  
  
Kalia hardly seemed to notice. She continued through the port toward a line of vehicles. They looked like hovercrafts, but were so unlike the armored, dull Prodigal variety, that they might as well have been a different thing altogether.  
  
She walked to a blue and white colored hovercraft and unlocked it. She opened the driver side door. Seloran opened the door opposite hers, climbing in as she did.  
  
Kalia chattered during the drive. Seloran didn't pay attention to her; he watched the strange, and unfamiliarly frightening scenery. The hovercraft circled a large, paint blue lake. Reed legged; yellow beaked birds stood on one leg in the water, eyeing the shallows. He caught a glimpse of purple-scaled fish once, and he saw a house standing a few feet away from the lake.  
  
Kalia set the hovercraft down in a stone paved driveway. They climbed out of the vehicle and walked toward the house. The building had two floors and many rooms, judging by the proliferation of windows rimmed by green shutters.  
  
"Do you live here alone?" he asked.  
  
"Yes," Kalia said, "My family used to live here with me. It'll be nice to have some company again."  
  
Kalia walked to the door. It slid open and Seloran followed her through the doorway. His eyes throbbed from the things he'd seen, so he didn't dwell on the furniture contained within. The ache began to subside in the dim light.  
  
"Are you hungry? Would you like to pick a bedroom?" Kalia asked.  
  
"I would like to sleep," he said, "The journey was tiring."  
  
"Alright."  
  
Kalia ascended a flight of lavender carpeted stairs. Seloran followed, stopping occasionally to eye portraits on the walls. A few of them were abstract art, and the rest, pictures of smiling families with children. He caught Kalia's face in some of them.  
  
Seloran reached the top of the stairwell. There were five or six doors in the upstairs hallway. Glittery, brass knobs protruded from each door. From the peculiar way they fit into the doorhinges, Seloran decided they must open manually.  
  
Kalia grasped one doorknob, gave it a quick twist, and pushed the door open.  
  
He peered into the room. A bed and a night table stood near the door. Those and the dresser, which leaned against the opposite wall, were made of wood and painted white. A dark blue bedspread lay neatly across the mattress. Several pillows of the same color were piled at one end of the bed.   
  
"My son James slept in this room. I thought you might like it."  
  
"Isn't James a Terran name?"  
  
Kalia grinned. Laugh lines gathered in the corners of her eyes. "I named him for an acquaintance of mine, who was Terran."  
  
"Oh, I see."  
  
"Is there anything else you need?"  
  
"Could you acquire a piano for me? Its a Terran instrument."  
  
"I'm sure the industrial synthesizers can program it for you. Isn't it similar to a Tavichron?"  
  
Seloran didn't know what a Tavichron was, but he nodded. He lay down on the bed. After Kalia left, he studied each piece of furniture and corner of his new room. The windows were disproportionate with the other surroundings, stretching from the floor to the ceiling in height. Vulcan designed tapestries caught the blinding rays of Trill's sun.  
  
He watched the filmy tapestries flutter. Setal's image formed in the folds of cloth. A stab of regret shot through him. He felt alone in this strange place, without the people who'd been his companions and friends. He even missed Philip.  
  
Seloran shut his eyes to banish Setal's image, and fell asleep. It was evening when he woke. He drew aside the tapestries to watch the stars emerge. He remembered a rare night on Prodigal. The cloud cover had cleared away for a few moments, just long enough for him to see a few stars, twinkling street lights in the sky.  
  
The night was clear. The sky encased Trill like a bowl, a bowl filled to the brim with innumerable stars. Seloran spent the night at his window, unable to force his eyes away. With dawn came a new distraction; a sunrise streaked with color, purple, blue, and orange hues. The rays of light poked through misty white clouds, which seemed less like clouds, and more like results of a magical spell cast upon the sky.  
  
As the morning brightened, Seloran drew away from the window. He found clothing in his dresser. It wasn't very colorful, which suited him. He put on the subdued blue shirt and pants. He ran his fingers through his uncut mass of hair, and walked downstairs.  
  
Kalia was downstairs already. She set two bowls of fruit on a wooden table, and smiled at him.  
  
"Good morning. Did you have a restful night?"  
  
"Yes," he lied. He sat at the table with her.  
  
  
"The Symbiosis Commission is impressed with you. Do you remember the pre-initiate test you sent in with your query?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"The test yielded high results. Actually, I expected you to be a little different. You say you're sixteen?"  
  
Seloran wondered if she'd uncovered his lie. His research on the Trill initiate program had led him to a discovery; the minimum age for an initiate was sixteen. Therefore, he stated his age in the query as sixteen, though he was a year younger.  
  
"Yes, I'm sixteen."  
  
"You seem much older. If I didn't know better, I would say you had lived more than one life. You'll make a good candidate for the initiate program, Seloran."  
  
"Are you joined with a symbiont?"  
  
"I am. I'm Tarrison's first host."  
  
"I see. When will I begin the program?"  
  
"You start tomorrow. I should tell you that only three in ten initiates complete the program successfully."  
  
I will have a symbiont, he thought.  
  
"I see." He poked his fruit with a fork.   
  
Seloran didn't work with most of the other initiates. To him, they seemed eager as toddlers fighting over pieces of candy. His serious demeanor won him supporters among the instructors of the program, while his unreadable silences and mysterious background elicited caution from others. He quickly learned one of the Symbiosis Commission's obsessions, symbionts must be placed in well rounded, balanced individuals. Therefore, Seloran was careful to show them what they wanted to see. There were very few who saw else.  
  
He majored in language, music, and diplomacy studies. As time passed, he won honors in those areas. He never adjusted to Trill, but he learned to dissipate the affect by ignoring it, or by draining his frustration into a piano.   
  
One evening, in Seloran's nineteenth year, he entered Kalia's house as Trill's moon began to rise over the lake. A visitor sat with Kalia in the living room. Both rose from their chairs when he came in. From what he could tell, Kalia hadn't liked the topic of conversation. Her face was flushed and her hands shook.   
  
Seloran studied the visitor's sharp featured, clear-eyed face as he would an enemy's face, probing for potential weaknesses. She returned his gaze. A chilling realization crept over him. The woman seemed to know, and acknowledge, the intent of his gaze. She narrowed her eyes.  
  
"I'm Dr Leni Cay," she said.  
  
"Seloran."  
  
He searched his memory. The Cay symbiont was almost seven hundred years old, if he remembered correctly. It had lived almost two dozen lives. He doubted she was here to exchange pleasantries.  
  
"We were just discussing you," Cay said.  
  
Seloran sat in a plush chair. "What were you saying?"  
  
Leni Cay probed his face with her opaque, greenish hazel eyes. Perhaps she meant to determine the intention of his words. He didn't enjoy her stare. He made his expression cold and unreadable.  
  
"We were speaking of your suitability as a host candidate."  
  
"Do you find me suitable, Dr Cay?"  
  
"In most respects, yes."  
  
"In what respects do you find me lacking?"  
  
"Personally, I don't like you.."  
  
Seloran laughed. "Should you like me, Dr Cay? You don't know me."  
  
"You didn't ask me why I don't like you."  
  
"Oh, did you want me to? You should have said so."  
  
Dr Cay glared at him. He withstood her poisonous look without shifting a facial muscle.  
  
"In several of my twenty two lifetimes," said Cay, " my past hosts lived difficult early lives. All acquired certain traits as a result. They were underhanded, secretive, deceptive, vengeful--among worse things."  
  
Seloran slowly narrowed his eyes. "Dr Cay, you don't like me because my childhood was difficult? If I interpreted correctly, I throw myself at your underdeveloped sense of mercy. There is nothing I can do to change my circumstances, short of temporal intervention. Do you have a time machine on hand, Dr Cay?"  
  
Leni Cay's lips pressed into a thin line. Fear and anger swirled in her glittering eyes. Obviously, she saw malice within him, as he saw contempt within her.  
  
  
"There is an example. Bitterness and pride. Combined, they are the ingredients for something far worse."  
  
Seloran looked at Kalia. As he studied her face, full blown anger seized him. How dare this Leni Cay try to ruin his chances of gaining a symbiont? Now Kalia doubted him. Who else would?  
  
"Dr Cay," he said, his voice holding a steady undercurrent of malice, "You expressed your dislike toward me in a blunt and tactless way. Let me take this opportunity to do the same, only with more respect for any feelings you might have. Certain individuals are polar opposites, and they will dislike one another intensely until one happens to exit this plane of existence. Dr, you and I are two such people. And, a word on your disadvantaged past hosts. You may have their memories; you may know what they felt. But, don't presume to understand them. Each individual is unique. Grouping them into a stereotype based on disadvantaged pasts is ignorant and futile. Now, if you'll excuse me."  
  
Seloran strode upstairs to his room. He sat at his piano and began to play. The power of his anger rifled the music. He heard Dr Cay and Kalia arguing as he played.  
  
"Listen to that Leni, its beautiful," Kalia said, "You accuse him of having no compassion. Listen to his music."  
  
"His music convinces me more. It's a window into his dark soul."  
  
"His soul is capable of kindness and compassion, Leni! His soul can be hurt. Didn't you hear the pain behind his words?"  
  
"No, I did not. Kalia, Seloran is not your son or grandson. He cares little for the support you give him, and even less for your love."  
  
"You have no right to come into my house and say these things. If Seloran has no compassion, he isn't the only one here with that difficulty!"  
  
Seloran's music shifted. A ripple of sorrow tinged the melody. Leni Cay's words rang true; he didn't understand Kalia or Trill enough to care about either one. An ache tugged in his chest. He always felt the pain in varying degrees, but here, on Trill, it was unbearable. The notes turned into echoes, floating through the room, ghosts of his pain..  
  
"Do you hear that?" he heard Kalia say, "Tell me he is 'dark' again. Tell me he doesn't feel."  
  
"Many believe as you do, Kalia. My opinion is not changed. Good day."  
  
A door slammed. Sobs reached his ears a few moments later. Seloran stopped playing. His pained emotions drained away with the music, his pity for Kalia evaporated. He could only sit in spellbound fascination, listening to the expression of her pain. He fell asleep to the lullaby of her sobs.  
  
Two weeks later, he received a notice for field docent training under Curzon Dax. The purpose of field training, he read, was to observe the everyday life of a joined Trill. While researching Dax's records, he discovered his assignment to Dax wasn't random. Dax had a tendency to give initiates a bad recommendation, causing them to wash out of the program. He found that Dr Leni Cay of the Symbiosis Commission had submitted his recommendation to Dax.  
  
He told Kalia about it the next morning. She didn't look well. Dark circles nestled under her eyes, which gazed tiredly at him. Her voice crackled like dry paper when she spoke.  
  
"Dr Cay wants to drop you from the program," she said, "She won't make a direct recommendation against you, she knows we will successfully appeal it if she tries. She's hoping Curzon Dax will do it for her."  
  
"I won't let her do it," he said, with more force than he intended.  
  
Kalia smiled and tapped his shoulder. "That's good. People like her aren't worth your time, Seloran."   
  
That afternoon, he boarded a transport ship to Versus II, where Curzon Dax was located. The sleek, smoothly designed transport vessel had nothing in common with the last transport he'd traveled on. Even his cabin was luxurious. He sank into the comfortable, rust colored seats, staring at the cream walls. Everything felt cool to the touch.   
  
He explored the cabin's many compartments. A small, rectangular mirror protruded from a seat corner. Seloran freed it and gazed into the reflective surface.  
  
The man in the mirror bore no superficial resemblance to the Seloran of four years past. His once wild mane of obsidian colored hair hung neatly cut to the neck. His face held more flesh, though his limbs were angular. He wore a tasteful set of well made clothing, rather than the faded and threadbare outfits he'd worn on Prodigal. Despite the changes, his reflective green eyes still held the same nuances.  
  
I suppose, he thought, that I am the same Seloran inside.  
  
He slept through the flight, and woke as the vessel shuddered slightly, descending through Versus II's atmosphere.  
  
***  
  
Seloran exited the transport, gazing at the landing port of Versus II. Romulans, Cardassians, and several Federation representatives populated the port. He remembered that a negotiation between the Cardassian Union and Romulan Empire was taking place here, in the capital. He wondered where he would find Curzon Dax. He walked toward the nearest pair, a Romulan and a Cardassian, with the intention of asking directions.  
  
"I tell you, Nentar, the federation makes me uneasy. Especially the Terrans," said the Cardassian.  
  
"Ah, tolerance, tolerance," the Romulan responded in a mocking tone, "The federation respects tolerance, do they not? Its best to place an open smile on one's face, and face one's enemies unarmed, to receive a full ration of federation patronizing."  
  
"Bah," said the Cardassian, "Let the diplomats coddle the federation into accepting terms."  
  
"You aren't diplomats?"  
  
The two turned to look at Seloran. The Cardassian sneered.  
  
"Do I look like a diplomat to you, Trill?"  
  
Seloran recalled some Cardassian terms. "No, you look like an overgrown Gettle with the brains of a Vole."  
  
The Cardassian burst into laughter. "You're an interesting one, Trill! I'm Gul Arek Darhe'el."  
  
"Seloran."  
  
"And I," said the Romulan, without taking his shadowy brown eyes from Seloran, "I am Nentar tr'Acraya."  
  
"Romulan arrogance," muttered Darhe'el, "Or is that exclusive to the Tal Shiar and the diplomats?"  
  
Therefore, Nentar is Tal Shiar, Seloran thought. He eyed the Romulan's blue and gray, square patterned uniform. He had seen a few Romulans on Prodigal, but this one appeared different. In fact, he was unique among the other Romulans in the crowded port. His looks were the same, dark hair and eyes, a high boned forehead, ears curved into pointed tips. No, his difference had nothing to do with the physical.  
  
"You ask too many questions, Arek," said Nentar, "It is the Cardassians who are arrogant."  
  
Darhe'el chuckled. Seloran felt drawn to the Cardassian, despite the unfamiliar, reptilian ridges which laced his face and neck. Darhe'el had an interesting and familiar sense of humor to him. He wouldn't admit it, even to himself, but Darhe'el's laughter reminded him of Shistor.  
  
"What are you doing here, Trill?" Darhe'el asked, "Are you a diplomat?"  
  
"I don't posses excessive tolerance."  
  
Nentar's lips quirked slightly. "No, you don't. Come, walk with us."  
  
They strode through the port and into the dusky evening. A tall, sandstone building lay ahead of them. Nentar and Darhe'el walked down a weathered path toward it. Seloran followed. He told them about the initiate program, and Curzon Dax. When he mentioned Dax, Nentar said.  
  
"Ahh, Dax. We discussed him earlier. Arek believes Dax is a Klingon spy."  
  
"A Klingon spy?"  
  
"He acts like one," Darhe'el said, "He's nothing like the other federation negotiators. He even makes Klingon ambassadors look reserved by comparison."  
  
"Should I try to find him?"  
  
"Ambassador Curzon Dax is conducting negotiations at the moment," said Nentar, " Therefore, there is no hurry. I'm certain he can't be disturbed."  
  
"Well, I need to report to the Legate. I'll speak with you later, Seloran, Nentar."   
  
Darhe'el hurried into the building.  
  
"He is part of the Cardassian security detail," Nentar said, "We never speak for any length of time without an interruption."  
  
"What do you talk about?"  
  
"Many things. Shall we continue this discussion inside?"  
They had stopped walking, and were inside the building, standing in a corridor of rooms. Judging by the few passers by, it looked like the Romulan section of diplomatic quarters.   
  
He nodded cautiously, and followed Nentar into a sparsely furnished room. A tan colored travel bag lay near the bed. Nentar sat next to it, Seloran on a chair.  
  
"Have you read Shriler?" Nentar asked.  
  
"No, I haven't. Wasn't he a ninth century Romulan poet?"  
  
"Yes. He was also an Acraya."  
  
"Acraya? He was your clan?"  
  
"We of the Acraya understand--certain conditions, better than others do. We can always identify those of a similar nature."  
  
"Do you have any of Shriler's poetry with you?"   
  
Seloran wasn't sure what Nentar meant by 'those of a similar nature,' but he didn't want to ask outright. Perhaps Shriler's poetry could answer his unspoken question.  
  
Nentar reached into his travel bag and took out a PADD. He handed the device to Seloran, watching him with an unreadable expression.  
  
Seloran read.  
  
The moth, born in darkness  
Darkness is born within  
Shadows cast, unseen  
Shadow upon shadow  
The moth, blinded by day light  
As it has not light  
Shadow upon light  
The moth shrouds  
For fear has its own shadow  
--From the Collective poetry of Shriler.  
  
Seloran read the poem again, and again, and a fourth time. The words whispered to him, they teased him. They wrapped him into a blissful chokehold.  
  
Nentar's lips curled into an almost smile. "You understand. I thought you would."  
  
"How--how did you know?"  
  
"We of the Acrayas simply do. Perhaps it is an inborn talent, perhaps learned. We recognize those like us by the 'shadows' they cast. Darhe'el has a shadow. You do."  
  
"Does everyone?"  
  
"Most. However, few are aware of their capacity for darkness. Children of the Acraya clan are taught to know their shadow from infancy. First, we are taught to experience our dark emotions and thoughts, secondly, to control them, and then to conceal them. If one casts a long enough shadow, even the most oblivious will sense it."  
  
"Do I cast a--long shadow?"  
  
"No, neither you or Darhe'el do, but for different reasons. Arek excuses his shadow each time it appears. Yours resembles mine. You know the intricacies of your shadow self; you don't hide it, only from others. Do you understand the lighter emotions?"  
  
Seloran clasped his hands together. "I spent four years on Trill. I still don't understand the people there."  
  
"And before that?"  
  
"I lived on a planet called Prodigal Orios."  
  
"Yes, I know of Prodigal."  
  
"I didn't feel as--threatened, there. Now I feel like the moth in Shriler's poem, hiding from my own shadow."  
  
"Seloran," Nentar said, "Once you become joined, you must leave Trill. You will leave, and you will find a place for your shadow self. Do you ever feel a dull ache in your chest?"  
  
Seloran blinked in surprise. "Yes. How did you know?"  
  
"That is your pain, the pain of denying your dark nature. If you allow it to, it will expand, until you are a hollow shell of yourself. I have seen it happen. As one who knows, I tell you to fill the ache until it ceases."  
  
Seloran pressed his hands together tighter, whitening his knuckles. A small part of him warred against Nentar's words.  
  
"But I don't want to hurt anyone."  
  
"Yes," said Nentar, "You do."  
  
The last reluctant part of him surrendered. He imagined he saw his shadow lengthen to touch Nentar's shadow. They were two parts of the same thing.  
  
Some time later, Seloran left Nentar's rooms with an armload of Shriler's poetry. He found the federation section of diplomatic quarters, and asked a Starfleet officer directions to Curzon Dax's location.  
  
"The ambassador's quarters are on section fourteen of the complex," said the smiling officer, "Room 247, I believe."  
  
Seloran rode a turbolift to section fourteen. He walked to the door marked 247, and rang the chime.  
  
"Come in!" called a voice  
  
He moved into the room as the door opened. The furnishings had a federation design, smooth, gray, and seamless. PADDS and other equipment littered a small table.  
  
"So, you're Seloran," said a deep, gruff voice, "Welcome to Versus II."  
  
Seloran looked to the side, at the 'replicator,' a new piece of technology, similar to synthesizers. A middle aged Trill man stood there, pouring a red liquid into two glasses.  
  
"Ambassador Dax, I assume."  
  
"The Terrans have a good way to describe assumptions. Assuming makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me.' "  
  
"I see."  
  
"You're late, Seloran."  
  
"I was lost for a time, Ambassador."  
  
"Sit."  
  
Seloran sat at the document filled table, nonplussed. He could tell what made Dax a successful negotiator. It was almost impossible to predict him. He took glances at Dax's cobalt blue eyes, trying to interpret what lay beneath them.  
  
Dax sat across from him, and handed him one of the glasses.  
  
"You've won honors in diplomacy, haven't you?"  
  
"Yes," said Seloran, "Three."  
  
"Care to test those skills of yours. The federation negotiating team needs another participant."  
  
"If I am allowed, I will."  
  
"Why else would you be here?"  
  
Seloran slid his hand around the cold glass. "I thought I was here to experience field docent training."  
  
"The purpose to that is twofold. First, for you to observe me, and second, for me to evaluate you."  
  
"You wish to evaluate my negotiating skills?"  
  
"Among other things."  
  
Seloran lifted the glass to his lips. He took a mouthful of the red liquid, recognizing its flavor as Klingon bloodwine. He thought of Darhe'el's reference to Dax as a Klingon spy.  
  
"What is the federation's position here?"  
  
"Were here to help mediate the dispute."  
  
"I was told little about these negotiations. There is a border conflict involved?"  
  
"Versus II is under Kokirian jurisdiction, they control three star systems in this area. Their space is located directly between the Cardassian Union and the Romulan Empire, in a border area disputed by both powers. The Kokirians asked for federation negotiators, they want a peaceful solution to the border disputes. They also want a settlement guaranteeing their autonomy."  
  
"Have they considered joining the federation?"  
  
"That depends on our performance here. Yes, they expressed interest."  
  
Seloran nodded. "A very delicate negotiation."  
  
"You'll be staying in room 249. Get some rest."  
  
He rose to go.  
  
"Seloran, did you encounter any diplomatic situations on Prodigal Orios?"  
  
I split the Crossbone's leader's skull open, he thought, I wonder if he would consider that a successful negotiation?  
  
"On Prodigal, negotiations have different dimensions, to speak mildly."  
  
"Say it less mildly."  
  
"There are no negotiations on Prodigal Orios, none you would consider such."  
  
Dax poured himself another drink. "You can go."  
  
Seloran left the room and walked to room 249.  
  
That night, smoky images undulated in his dreams. He reached to touch one, but it floated from his grasp and dissipated into the others. The purple-gray smoke blended together, forming a face unfamiliar at first. Its eyes sparkled dull ash. It smiled into a lost part of Seloran's soul. He knew it, he knew her.  
  
It whispered his name.  
  
"No!" He woke. Morning lights spilled through a window, illuminating his shaking hands.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
